Do you feel neglected? Have I done that to you? I feel like I’ve neglected you, and the burden of guilt is weighing me down so much that I just neglect you some more. I’ve fallen off the ole Bloggin’ Wagon, and Dear Sweet Jesus, do I ever need help getting back on. So here I am again, giving out (probably empty) promises that I’ll be back in the saddle soon, and spreading wit and pointless stories like Typhoid Mary.
Or maybe I’m just teasing you. Wouldn’t be the first time, right?
Anyway, Here’s me, sitting right in front of the same ugly computer in the same ugly corner in the same ugly house in the same ugly village… I should probably stop right there. You’ve got the picture, right? Nothing noteworthy has changed. We’ve still not moved. We still have no idea when that will ever happen (although, just as an aside, the fact that I’m stating we don’t know when, as opposed to not knowing if, is a HUGE mark of just how optimistic I’m forcing myself to be in that department).
The kids are growing, and I’d really love to share a picture of the three of them in all their little monkey glory, but unfortunately I don’t ever manage to have the skills required to catch all three of them in focus in one picture, and as there’s three of them I’m not sure I’ll have the time to upload one of each. Maybe I will. If there are pictures attached then I did. If there aren’t, well, some other insanity has rescued you from that bit of cuteness.
I am, for the moment, off the happy pills. Wow! No, I’m not healed, probably not even on the road to mental health (does that even exist?), or even feeling that much better. It’s more of a ME thing, really. Why should I need to medicate solely to be able to support the overbearing presence of Mr. Manthing? If that is truly the problem, and it feels like it is, then I should just bully him back into being the way she should (IMHO) be, right? So new tactic, and so far it seems to be working, or at least working as well as those old happy pills but without running up the Secu’s debt any. Yay Me!
Or maybe not. Because sometimes I wonder if the man really knows who he married. This past weekend I had some very nice people over, people with whom I have some sort of connection with on at least some level. And after all these people had gone back to their respective sleeping holes for the evening, Mr. Manthing looks over at me and says something about how he’s not really sure he knows the person I am, implying that when those people were here I’d somehow mutated into someone I’m not. And this struck me as something so fundamentally sad, probably the root of all the “maritals” running through this marriage, because for once I felt almost like me again. For months, probably years at this point, I’ve felt lost here. I’m not stay-at-home-mother material, I’m surely not a housewife, and the one weekend, the first weekend in a coon’s age I’ve been able to step outside both of those roles—at the same time (!!!), I get accused of not being me. You have no idea how frightening this is.
So I’ve had minor irons in the fire, little tidbits to help keep me sane and prevent me from drowning in a sea of crayons, unusable sidewalk chalk (yes, there’s a rant there), and shitty diapers. The biggest of these projects, and probably the most interesting—no, certainly the most interesting, was my visit last weekend with this English dude named Ian. See, Ian’s got a book—a REAL book—that talks about things like farming, relationships, and those nasty Londoners who like the English countryside so much they drive the locals out. And he’s English, so he’s got one of those POSH accents that comes to him naturally without having to fake it, like say, I would—although I personally think my English accent is rather…OK, it’s fake, totally fake. Anyway, Ian came for a visit and we did a book-signing in Joinville and he sold a few books (which was nice) and we talked about me eventually writing The Book That Ends All Books, you know the one where I officially bump The Bible out of the Most Books Sold slot, that one, because he totally thinks I can (please don’t let his delusions fool you—he is rather intelligent otherwise). Actually, we spent a good bit of time talking about publishers and what total arseholes (his word) they can be. Because he’s really been dicked around on his book. I’ve read it. I liked it. And he’s gotten a lot of really, really extraordinary reviews. But the publisher is letting the book sink right off the face of the earth. It’s sad really, because it’s a book with a message (like THINK, you stupid rich people, about what you’re really doing when you buy that lovely country home that you’ll spend all of four weeks in a year), with lots of good characters, good stories, laughter, tears, the whole nine yards. So, if you’ve got nothing else to do, go over to Amazon and buy yourself a copy—or let me know if you’d be interested in meeting the guy, because I’ve got his schedule of events committed to memory. But beware girls, he is married…